Newland leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. She looked handsomer and more Diana-like than ever. The moist English air seemed to have deepened the bloom of her cheeks and softened the slight hardness of her virginal features; or else it was simply the inner glow of happiness, shining through like a light under ice.
“Wear, dearest? I thought a trunkful of things had come from Paris last week.”
“Yes, of course. I meant to say that I shan’t know which to wear.” She pouted a little. “I’ve never dined out in London; and I don’t want to be ridiculous.”
He tried to enter into her perplexity. “But don’t Englishwomen dress just like everybody else in the evening?”
“Newland! How can you ask such funny questions? When they go to the theatre in old ball-dresses and bare heads.”
“Well, perhaps they wear new ball-dresses at home; but at any rate Mrs. Carfry and Miss Harle won’t. They’ll wear caps like my mother’s—and shawls; very soft shawls.”
“Yes; but how will the other women be dressed?”
“Not as well as you, dear,” he rejoined, wondering what had suddenly developed in her Janey’s morbid interest in clothes.
She pushed back her chair with a sigh. “That’s dear of you, Newland; but it doesn’t help me much.”
He had an inspiration. “Why not wear your wedding-dress? That can’t be wrong, can it?”
“Oh, dearest! If I only had it here! But it’s gone to Paris to be made over for next winter, and Worth hasn’t sent it back.”